


that's the power of pine-sol, baby!

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Bad Puns, Domestic Fluff, Eve as a Plot Device, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Professor Castiel (Supernatural), Quarantine, Roommates, Teacher Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:07:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24705826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It takes one (1) nosy real estate broker, one (1) stay-at-home-order and one (1) Nintendo Switch to find the reciprocal of Dean’s feelings for his roommate.[written for the pb exchange 2020: quarantine & chill]
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 23
Kudos: 139
Collections: Anonymous, ProfoundBond Exchange: Quarantine & Chill





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foldingcranes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foldingcranes/gifts).



> _this writer desperately hopes that the sugar and calorie content from the sheer inundation of easter eggs will make up for her knowledge (or lack thereof) in the following fandoms: overwatch, animal crossing: new horizons, the princess bride, star trek_
> 
> beta'd (and fact-checked) by the incomparable [tiamatv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv). (literally, what would i do without you?)
> 
> disclaimer: happy exchange!!! i'm so glad kasi let me choose from a variety of tropes. my preemptive apologies for the major ~~stalking~~ research done for this fic :> it's my first smut, too :^)
> 
> addendum to the disclaimer: all references and info were gathered from me, myself, and google.

> **From:** eve@romanenterprises.com
> 
> **Sent:** March 19, 2020 3:45 PM  
>  **To:** dean.winchester@kippsanjose.org  
>  **Subject:** [EXTERNAL] Complaint—Terrace Conditions
> 
> To the tenant(s) in Apartment 2B,
> 
> My name is Eve Jones, and I am writing to you in regards to the condition of your terrace. As an experienced and licensed real estate broker and a fellow resident of this apartment complex, I feel it is my duty and responsibility to advise you that the dilapidated and unsightly collection of plants on your terrace ruins the symmetry of the exterior of the entire apartment building and is a potential detractor towards future residents. Moreover, I must inform you that the hordes of foul insects and disgusting flies hovering around your plants are repulsive from both a visual and aural perspective.
> 
> Please treat this email as a friendly reminder from a compassionate neighbor. I may not be your landlord, but I feel that I can speak on behalf of the majority of the complex that your terrace is, quite frankly, a horrific sight, and this should be remedied as soon as possible. Should you require assistance, I can happily provide the names of several extermination services at a moment’s notice.
> 
> Kind regards,
> 
> Eve Jones

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

“Who the fuck does she think she is?”

“Dean?”

“I mean, I get that the balcony isn’t, like, something you put on the cover of _Homes & Gardens_, but it’s definitely not _Hoarders_ level.”

“Huh?”

“And future residents? Lady, no one is looking for an apartment during a fucking lockdown.”

“Dean? What’s going on?”

“Here, read this.”

“... I swear—”

“... Cas? Are you okay? You’re super red.”

“—the nerve of this woman. ‘Dilapidated?’ ‘Unsightly?’ I’ll have you know that I carefully chose each individual plant with regards to its beneficial qualities for the native populations of bees.”

“Um, you probably shouldn’t read the rest then.”

“‘I must inform you that the hordes of foul insects and disgusting flies hovering around your plants—’”

“Oh, boy.”

“Dean, this is a declaration of war.”

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

> **From:** novak@stanford.edu  
>  **Sent:** March 20, 2020 5:56 PM  
>  **To:** eve@romanenterprises.com  
>  **Subject:** Re: [EXTERNAL] Complaint—Terrace Conditions
> 
> Dear Miss Jones,
> 
> Thank you very much for your enlightening email. I truly appreciate all the time and effort you took into scrutinizing the exterior of our apartment. Under these extraordinary circumstances, I am absolutely _delighted_ to have received your thoughtful advice, especially given the fact that you are—if your LinkedIn profile is up-to-date—the executive assistant to a very wealthy businessman. I wonder what he would say if he knew you were criticizing the state of an apartment balcony and harassing the tenants of said apartment rather than directing your valuable time elsewhere.
> 
> I would kindly suggest that you refrain from composing other _utterly inane_ emails about the condition of our balcony. I took the liberty of rereading the lease, and the rules and regulations _do not contain a specific clause_ pertaining to maintaining a certain appearance of the balcony of our apartment. I apologize if our “ _dilapidated_ ” plants have, as you so eloquently put it, “muck[ed] up” any semblance of aesthetic balance on the building’s exterior. I am sure that this matter is of great concern to everyone, especially since no one—aside from essential workers—should be traipsing about outside of their residence during this time of crisis. In response to your comment about “ _repulsive insects_ ”, there are over sixteen hundred native species of bees in California, many of which are endemic and a critical natural resource vital for sustainable crop pollination and proper ecosystem balance. I would highly recommend educating yourself about the benefits of apiary management before you decide to engage in any further dramatics. They are both unnecessary and hardly appropriate, given the situation.
> 
> Additionally, I _must decline_ your generous offer pertaining to potential extermination services. I very much enjoy the company of my bees, and given the fact that I am not breaking any part of my contract, I ask you to _abstain from contacting me further_ about your personal distaste for beneficial insects.
> 
> Regards,
> 
> Castiel Novak

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

“You know you could’ve just told her to fuck off, right?” Dean takes another look at the carefully composed response and groans silently. He realizes now that showing Cas the email was Not A Good Idea™, especially considering how his roommate-slash-best-friend responds to most personal threats with pointed words and an acerbic tongue.

“I don’t think it’s in our best interest to tell Richard Roman’s executive assistant to, as you said, ‘fuck off.’” Cas sneers, spindly fingers miming air quotes. His right eyebrow is twitching, and Dean can all but feel the immense rage emanating off of Cas’s body, warming the already stifling apartment like an old-timey space heater.

“Uh, maybe hold off on all the italics?” he tries, immediately regretting his suggestion when steely blue irises bore straight into his skull.

“ _Italics_ ,” Cas hisses, “are going to be the only way this revolting woman gets it through her head that our balcony is none of her business.”

“Subtext, Cas, subtext. Even my eighth graders know what subtext is,” Dean’s inner schoolteacher self pops right out. “I’m sure she’ll get the message without you verbally banging it into her head.”

“Well, I hope it hurts.” Cas drains his coffee, then slams the mug on the table, droplets flying everywhere. “My plants are not the problem. If this outbreak is good for anything, it’s that nature is healing. Bees are returning. As humans, we are the virus.”

Dean snorts, because he’s pretty sure Cas is quoting one of those pictures—what were they called again? _Minis_? _Maymays_? Oh, _memes_ —that the kids are all over these days. He’s seen a fair share of them in the classroom, his students clambering to show silly Mr. Winchester the latest trends and teasing him for his knowledge of current pop culture (or lack thereof). Dean’s grateful that Cas knows even less about the Kardashians than he does; at least he has something to bring to the table during dinner.

“It’s just that this entire situation is getting on my nerves,” Cas continues bitterly. “First, Stanford hardly gave us a week’s notice before we had to transition to online classes, and the provost hasn’t told us anything about a potential pass-fail policy, _and_ I’m still trying to figure out how to set up Zoom before my class on Tuesday. And now exasperatingly egotistical Eve here thinks that the balcony is somehow not up to her ridiculous standards.”

Dean nods in silent agreement. He’s been on the phone with KIPP San Jose Collegiate administration for more hours than he can count: scrambling to figure out how to distribute laptops and other supplies to his more disadvantaged students, and scheduling meetings with the other math teachers to lay out their curriculum plans for the rest of the school year. Geometry is a drawing-heavy subject, and Dean knows that he’ll be practicing his shapes for the next few weeks so his notes are even remotely legible on screen. His inbox is teeming with messages from his students wondering what’s going on, most of them wondering about tests, and just as many of them worrying about what happens with spring break. Ben Braeden’s mother has called him five times in the last two days, and he’s starting to wonder if his gesture of goodwill (giving out his personal phone number to parents “to talk about your child”) has backfired spectacularly.

“I feel you, Cas. But I don’t think venting on Eve is going to solve anything. You’re probably going to make it worse.”

The look on Cas’s face can probably smite a soul.

Dean holds up his hands. “Backing away now.” He grabs Castiel’s empty mug and retreats towards the fridge. “But really, if you’re gonna send the email, just send and forget. Don’t think about it too much.” He’s “mediated” several of Cas’s confrontations, each episode ending with him dragging Cas away like some furious black cat screeching at his mortal enemy.

“Done.” Cas closes his MacBook with a bang, and Dean just about leaps into the air. “I’m over it. If she emails again, I’m going to sic Michael on her. My brother can finally put his law degree to some good use.”

Dean knows what Cas’s eldest brother is capable of doing, and he shivers as he opens the fridge door, a wave of cool air soaking into his skin. “Whaddaya want for dinner?”

“What do we even have?” Cas shuffles into the kitchen, slinking an arm around Dean’s waist. Dean flushes— _oh no, don’t you dare go there_ —and looks back towards the fridge. He’s already given Cas multiple lectures on personal space, and every time, the dark-haired man just stares at him curiously before scooting that much closer to him. A hand-on-the-waist here, a lean-on-the-shoulder there—it’s enough to make any hot-blooded, testosterone-laced man go absolutely insane.

“Um. We have this,” Dean waves a box of wilted salad greens, “and also these,” a half-filled carton of blueberries rattles sadly in his hand, “and, honestly, not that much else. Except for half an onion.” _Well shit. Should’ve gone to Trader Joe’s when you had the chance_. The meager pile of food he’s assembled conjures up uncomfortable memories of struggle meals in college.

“Did you check the pantry?” The warmth vanishes as Cas slips past him to fumble through the cabinets. A minute later, he retrieves a few cans and boxes along with a familiar blue tin. Dean gasps.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“I trust Spam fried rice will be a sensible dinner option?” Cas shakes the tin.

Maybe it’s the heat and the promise of some protein-laden provisions, but Dean launches himself towards Cas. “I could just kiss—”

The sultry saxophone riff of “Careless Whisper” blares from the table. Dean slips and greets the floor with a rather high-pitched “ _shit!_ ”, his heart thudding erratically to the rhythm of George Michael.

“—and that’s probably Gabriel,” Cas stutters, his face a glaring shade of red. “You were saying?”

“Uh, nothing. Nevermind.” Dean croaks, scrambling to his feet. “I can prep and cook if you wanna go talk to Gabe?”

“That sounds like a great idea, Dean,” and Cas beams at him— _crapcrapcrap_ —before striding away to answer his phone. “Yes, Gabriel?”

Dean spends the next few minutes willing his hormones to _just shut up and stop freaking out already_.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

> [jerk // 7:21 pm] fuck i did it again  
>   
> [bitch // 7:24 pm] ???  
>   
> [jerk // 7:36 pm] my roommate  
>   
> [bitch // 7:40 pm] … You did your roommate?? The one you’ve been pining after for the past nine months?  
>   
> [jerk // 7:43 pm] first off, fuck you. second off, i’m not pining for cas  
> [jerk // 7:44 pm] i’m just worried about him  
>   
> [bitch // 7:50 pm] Dean.  
> [bitch // 7:51 pm] Your pining is so strong you could literally be the spokesperson for Pine-Sol.  
>   
> [jerk // 8:00 pm] fuck off i’m not pining i’m a grown man. grown men don’t pine.  
>   
> [bitch // 8:05 pm] Tell that to the texts you sent Charlie.  
>   
> [jerk // 8:07 pm] r u srs  
> [jerk // 8:07 pm] what did she show u  
> [jerk // 8:08 pm] sam  
> [jerk // 8:08 pm] answer me  
> [jerk // 8:10 pm] i will literally murder her in her sleep once this lockdown is over  
> [jerk // 8:11 pm] SAM WINCHESTER  
>   
> [bitch // 8:13 pm] Dean, calm down. She didn’t show me anything serious.  
> [bitch // 8:13 pm] Just the parts where you said, and I quote, how much you wanted to buy a Tempur-Pedic mattress and explore it with him.  
> [bitch // 8:14 pm] Which is pretty tame. Considering what you usually write.  
> [bitch // 8:14 pm] Also, for the record, you have the most atrocious texting grammar I have ever seen.  
> [bitch // 8:15 pm] You’re a middle school teacher, for heaven’s sake.  
> [bitch // 8:15 pm] Are you setting a good example for your kids?  
>   
> [bitch // 8:30 pm] Dean?  
>   
> [jerk // 8:35 pm] orz orz orz  
>   
> [bitch // 8:36 pm] ????? Context please?????  
>   
> [jerk // 8:37 pm] oh it’s me smashing my head into the ground  
> [jerk // 8:38 pm] the o is my head and the r is my arms and the z is my legs  
> [jerk // 8:39 pm] it’s a emoticon. the kids showed me  
> [jerk // 8:40 pm] pretty cool huh  
>   
> [bitch // 8:43 pm] Are you okay, Dean?  
>   
> [jerk // 8:45 pm] no not rly  
>   
> [bitch // 8:49 pm] Do you want to tell me what happened?  
>   
> [jerk // 8:51 pm] me and cas almost had a moment again. then his phone went off  
>   
> [bitch // 8:52 pm] Well, shit.  
>   
> [jerk // 8:55 pm] yeah well he asked me what happened so i said nothing and now i feel like an idiot because he’s so perfect and so smart and did i tell you how he was going off on this totally karen woman who told him our balcony looked like crap cuz of all of the plants and the bees and he was so badass and ughhhh sam he’s literally everything i need  
>   
> [bitch // 9:04 pm] Okay, um, give me some time to process that.  
> [bitch // 9:07 pm] Who are you, and what have you done to Dean?  
>   
> [jerk // 9:10 pm] or maybe i just wanna get laid  
>   
> [bitch // 9:12 pm] Okay, definitely still Dean.  
>   
> [jerk // 9:13 pm] so yeah. go ahead and laugh  
>   
> [bitch // 9:16 pm] Dean, I’m not laughing. Well, maybe a little.  
> [bitch // 9:16 pm] I’m just amazed it took you so long to realize it.  
>   
> [jerk // 9:17 pm] realize what  
>   
> [bitch // 9:17 pm] Pining.  
>   
> [jerk // 9:18 pm] bitch ew i don’t pine  
>   
> [bitch // 9:20 pm] … Read your past messages and get back to me.  
> [bitch // 9:20 pm] “he’s literally everything i need”? Your words.  
>   
> [jerk // 9:25 pm] ok fine  
> [jerk // 9:25 pm] i won’t admit to anything tho  
> [jerk // 9:26 pm] but still  
> [jerk // 9:26 pm] i don’t think he sees me as anything but a friend  
> [jerk // 9:27 pm] pretty sure he only has a hardon for bees and conservation and stuff like that  
> [jerk // 9:28 pm] :(  
>   
> [bitch // 9:40 pm] Maybe you could do something about it?  
>   
> [jerk // 9:44 pm] maybe idk it’s literally anything  
>   
> [bitch // 9:47 pm] Now that’s the Dean I know and love.  
> [bitch // 9:47 pm] Crap, I’ll talk to you later. Ash is actually burning our kitchen down.  
>   
> [jerk // 9:50 pm] orz

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

So maybe texting Sam about his lack of a love life isn’t the best idea. His little brother has always been the more mature and emotionally sound of the two, and Dean had seriously hoped that venting to him would reveal some deep inner truth about himself.

~~It had.~~

Dean is now faced with the uneasy thought that maybe, through all this time, he’s actually been in love with his best friend. Or he wants to jump his bones. Hormones don’t really discriminate between the two.

If someone asks Dean to pinpoint when this happened (nope, he’s not saying “pining” out loud) he’ll probably direct them towards that one meme (yep, that’s what they’re called). It’s the one where Charlie Day is feverishly waving his hands around a corkboard and trying to prove Pepe Silvia doesn’t exist.

His first meeting with Cas occurred on the dark streets of King’s Row in Overwatch. Dean’s maining McCree as usual (how else will he live out his gunslinging dreams?) and trying to outlast Genji, but he’s confused by this Zenyatta’s unorthodox yet successful strategies of peeling. He friend requests, then whispers Zenyatta right after the game and meets one Castiel Emmanuel Novak, assistant professor at Stanford University and bona fide bee enthusiast. (“I prefer the term _apimaniac_.” “Cas, that makes you sound like an actual crazy person.”)

They play a few more rounds before realizing that they make a pretty good team—with Dean’s aggro nature pairing well with Cas’s eccentric playing style—and agree to play more in the future. The two of them fall into a comfortable routine, duoing whenever their hectic schedules manage to sync. Castiel soon becomes Cas, owing to the fact that one-syllable names are easier to scream over the voice chat during chaotic games.

The voice chat. Dean shudders as he thinks back to the first time he heard Cas’s voice over his headphones. Usually, he zones out from the conversation; the other players are normally around the age of his students, and he’s more focused on escorting that payload than trading juvenile insults. However, during an exceptionally bad game, Dean’s ears hone in on the first thing he hears Cas snarl: “You utterly asinine imbeciles.”

Dean’s half-expecting some nasally teenager or preteen, so he’s caught off guard by the low, husky, potentially-pack-a-day voice delivering the elaborately constructed jab instead. (He later learns that Cas is actually vehemently opposed to cigarettes, rumbling some niche facts during their next game about the environmental dangers of smoking that mean nothing to Dean but sound like liquid molasses running through his ears.) Cas also possesses the most colorful yet refined variety of expletives Dean has ever heard, words that generally slip through Overwatch’s filter. Dean knows that the words aren’t meant for him, but something about Cas’s tone just gets him riled up, a miniature boost that has him attempting difficult maneuvers and approaches during battles.

It just so happens that Cas lives in San Jose, so when Dean gets an interview at KIPP, the two of them decide to meet up one weekend. Dean is a complete bundle of nerves when he walks towards Voltaire Coffee House, shouldering his backpack as a potential means of escape if the meeting goes sideways.

As it turns out, Cas is a tall, rugged figure of a man topped off with windblown inky hair and the most brilliant cobalt eyes to boot, and he looks nothing like the omnic he mains (go figure). Their first words go something like this:

“Tall, dark, and handsome. You must be Cas.”

“Dean?”

“The one and only.”

“Well, you look somewhat like your avatar, at least.”

“Cas, my avatar is literally a Peacekeeper-toting guy with a bionic left arm. And a poncho.”

“Fair point. And I suppose my lack of a metal body and floating orbs was to be expected.”

The coffee flows sweetly as Dean learns that Cas is the youngest of six siblings, grew up in the sleepy little town of Pontiac, and graduated from Princeton with degrees in biology and religion. In return, he tells Cas about Sam and about their life in Lawrence before Sam set his sights on Stanford and Dean decided to follow him, looking for teaching positions that fit his degree in applied mathematics. The afternoon breezes by as they chat, the conversation abruptly halted by a phone call from Cas’s frazzled colleague about a missing slideset for an upcoming presentation and _will-you-please-get-to-campus-right-now_. Cas looks genuinely apologetic as he leaves, but not before they exchange numbers.

So all in all, it goes pretty well. And when Dean gets the offer from KIPP, he asks Cas if he can crash at his low-rise apartment for a bit. To his surprise, Cas accepts.

Sam is initially concerned— _“Dean, you’ve actually only met this guy once! He could literally be a serial killer.” “Sam, the commute is too long.” “Dean, that’s a shitty excuse and you know it.”_ —but there’s something about Cas’s demeanor that makes Dean trust him instinctively. Or maybe it’s the voice. (Yeah, it’s definitely the voice.) Also, Dean’s taught Stranger Danger to young children a million times now and he’s had the added benefit of actually meeting the man, so he’s sure he can handle it.

Dean’s a fantastic cook, so he quickly assumes dominion in the kitchen, while Cas’s zeal for cleanliness keeps the apartment in a relatively organized state (well, balcony aside). The two of them work so well that Dean forgets to look at apartment listings and focuses his attention on shopping lists instead. What starts out as a week melts into a month, and by September, Cas has added Dean to the lease and their bikes are neatly locked next to each other on the apartment bike rack.

Honestly, Dean really doesn’t know when he started seeing Cas in _that way_. Sexuality-wise, he think of himself as the girl in that Old El Paso commercial, the one who settles the hard vs. soft taco debate with a casual “why not both?”. He doesn’t bother limiting himself, but one thing’s for certain: when you love by Dean Winchester’s code, you fall hard.

Or in Cas’s case, you sneak your way under Dean’s defenses like the Overwatch profanity filter, easing your way into his heart and enveloping it with your gravelly voice and sharp wit until Dean woke up one day and realized that his happiness had been here all along. Dean’s not really sure how to describe what, exactly, he feels for his roommate. He and Cas just complete each other, like crispy fries to a greasy cheeseburger or rich ice cream to flaky apple pie.

Another unfortunate side effect of falling for Cas? Dean just can’t seem to get it on with other people; he’s usually preoccupied with thoughts about black-haired, blue-eyed men. (Well, one specific black-haired, blue-eyed man.) Cas is one hell of an attractive academic, with full lips and damn dimples that bloom every time he laughs at one of Dean’s dumb jokes. Dean doesn’t consider himself much of a dreamer, but Cas somehow manages to work his way into his fantasies. That damn voice doesn’t do much to support Dean’s case, either. He figures it’s the last straw when he ends up rubbing one out in the shower while Castiel records a presentation in the living room, smothering his moans in dense steam as a steady trickle of water thrums down his back.

It also doesn’t help that that every time he manages to get a moment with Cas, the stupid cell phone goes off, “Careless Whisper” becoming a more effective cockblock than Dean’s reluctance to push further. The ringtone had been Gabe’s idea— _“that way you’ll always know it’s me, Cassie!”_ —and Dean vows to find a way to get his revenge for these broken moments from Cas’s troublemaking brother. Most of the time, though, he slinks back to his room, spell broken and heart cracked, and tries to ease his mind by idly grading homework or making lesson plans.

Dean knows he’s truly, royally fucked when Kevin Tran, one of his brightest kids, asks him who “Castiel Winchester” is and why his name is on his graded homework, scribbled like an afterthought in green pen.

At twenty-six, Dean’s definitely one of the younger teachers at KIPP, so he’s pretty popular among the kids; he has an especially strong bond with his geometry class. His students badger him with questions about his personal life, and he’s literally bitten his tongue one too many times in an effort to keep referring to Cas as his _roommate_. Not _boyfriend_ , not _partner_ , just _roommate_.

“Cas and me, we’re like complementary angles.” He paints broad, inky strokes on the whiteboard during a lesson on trigonometry. “We come together and add up to a right angle, see?” His marker etches a red square into the vertex. “And right angles are great and super special and useful for math. That’s like us. We just fit.”

(He’s thought about using that comparison for supplementary angles but vetoed that idea because he’s definitely more bent than straight.)

Jack Kline raises his hand. “So you two go together? Like a pair?”

“You could say that.” Dean shrugs.

“Or maybe like an _ordered pair_ ,” Kevin pipes up, then shrinks as Dean shifts from happy teacher to strict educator in one swift instant. He ends class amidst a swirling of whispers and doles out an especially difficult homework problem to Kevin in retaliation. Damn his perceptive kids. (And his loose hand.)

Dean tries everything he can to get Cas’s attention; he really does. If Dean’s the bull in the china shop, crashing obvious hints this way and that, then Cas is the blissfully ignorant shopkeeper, naïvely unaware of Dean’s bumbling attempts to woo him. Dean discovers that every bursting bouquet, every tiny gift, every sideways wink has the same exact effect: a blushing Cas, a chaste “thank you,” but nothing more. He’s no scientist, but if his rudimentary knowledge of statistics has taught him anything, it’s that his study has a rather significant p-value of “he’s just not that into you.”

Dean is reminded of their particularly memorable dinner ~~date~~ at Le Papillon that culminated in a verbal duel between Cas and the head chef about the ethical sourcing of the restaurant’s “sustainable” Chilean sea bass. He cringes as he remembers the searing remarks being thrown back and forth, Cas’s hair becoming more and more disheveled, eyes simmering in quiet fury as he spat out his calculated retorts. It had been pretty hot, Dean admits, or at least it had been before the maître d' dragged the chef away and Dean pulled Cas in the opposite direction. He’d had to wrap himself into a Dean-blanket around Cas’s quaking body as they made an undignified escape.

And as far as the actual date was concerned? Total fail.

He throws himself onto his bed, sighing as he buries his head into his pillow. Maybe he really should email Pine-Sol, ask them if they’re looking for a spokesperson because, _damn_. Though he hates to admit it, he’s really pining.

There’s a soft knock on his door. “Dean? Are you asleep?”

“Nope, not yet.” He lifts his head just slightly to look at Cas peering through his door. “What’s up?”

“You ate dinner awfully quickly and left. I wanted to check in to see if you’re doing okay. I know that this entire ordeal has been tough on all of us.” Dean watches Cas walk into his room, steps faltering as he makes his way towards the bed.

“It’s all good,” Dean tells him. Cas gingerly sits on the side of the bed, and Dean instinctively loops an arm around his waist, hugging him close, breathing in the scent of wildflowers and petrichor and _Cas_. “Just tired.” _Just pining—oh God, I sound like Sam_.

They bask in the comfortable, warm silence before Cas speaks. “Well, I was wondering if you wanted to watch some Netflix? I want to finish TOS.”

 _Netflix and chill_? Dean shakes his head vehemently to dispel any dirty thoughts. “Uh, sure. Sounds great.” The bed creaks as he sits and stands up, offering a hand towards Cas. “Shall we, Spock?”

The look Cas gives him as he takes his hand sends Dean’s heart into overdrive. “My pleasure, Captain.”

 _Goddamnit, can you chill, you stupid heart_?

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

> [queen // 10:17 am] dean!!  
>   
> [handmaiden // 10:18 am] hey charlie  
>   
> [queen // 10:18 am] how are you holding up! i know that zoom classes can be stupid.  
>   
> [handmaiden // 10:20 am] it’s fine i guess. the kids are great  
> [handmaiden // 10:20 am] speaking of kids  
> [handmaiden // 10:21 am] i talked to sam yesterday  
> [handmaiden // 10:21 am] u wanna know what he said  
>   
> [queen // 10:22 am] oops.  
>   
> [handmaiden // 10:24 am] char i told u that as a SECRET  
> [handmaiden // 10:24 am] >:(  
> [handmaiden // 10:25 am] i was drunk  
> [handmaiden // 10:25 am] nothing of importance was said  
>   
> [queen // 10:27 am] omg i’m sorry dean.  
> [queen // 10:28 am] you just actually seemed really broken up about him.  
> [queen // 10:28 am] i didn’t mean to tell sam.  
>   
> [handmaiden // 10:32 am] no it’s fine kiddo i forgive u  
> [handmaiden // 10:33 am] just didn’t expect my bro to be all up in my love life  
> [handmaiden // 10:34 am] and for u to be enabling him jfc  
>   
> [queen // 10:40 am] dean, besides my all-important job as a language arts teacher, i am also your coworker.  
> [queen // 10:40 am] and your drinking buddy.  
> [queen // 10:41 am] and your best friend.  
> [queen // 10:41 am] and matchmaker.  
> [queen // 10:42 am] and the little voice in your head wondering why you HAVEN’T MADE A MOVE YET.  
>   
> [handmaiden // 10:45 am] i think he’s just not interested  
> [handmaiden // 10:46 am] i told you abt le papillon right  
>   
> [queen // 10:48 am] ah, yes. the fish fiasco.  
> [queen // 10:49 am] about how you were never going to be able to show your face there again.  
>   
> [handmaiden // 10:50 am] he spent the entire time arguing with the chef what was i gonna do  
> [handmaiden // 10:51 am] i had no idea what a chilean sea bass was and why it is so important  
> [handmaiden // 10:51 am] fish is fish  
> [handmaiden // 10:52 am] i’m such a dumbass  
> [handmaiden // 10:53 am] and he was so hot gdi  
>   
> [queen // 10:53 am] awww dean :’)  
> [queen // 10:54 am] you big softie.  
> [queen // 10:54 am] you’re so whipped.  
>   
> [handmaiden // 10:57 am] >:(  
>   
> [queen // 11:02 am] dean, don’t be like that. he’ll come around at some point.  
> [queen // 11:04 am] if he has any decent taste in guys.  
>   
> [handmaiden // 11:07 am] that’s the point, char, i don’t think he has a taste in this at all  
> [handmaiden // 11:08 am] i’m not his taste  
> [handmaiden // 11:09 am] oh god how do i unsend  
> [handmaiden // 11:09 am] u know what i mean  
> [handmaiden // 11:10 am] don’t twist my words, char  
>   
> [queen // 11:12 am] dean winchester!! have more faith in yourself.  
> [queen // 11:12 am] you’re one of the nicest, sweetest, funniest people i know.  
> [queen // 11:13 am] that, and we have the same taste in women.  
> [queen // 11:14 am] i can’t say the same about men.  
>   
> [handmaiden // 11:16 am] char please  
>   
> [queen // 11:18 am] okay but you get the point, dean.  
> [queen // 11:19 am] if he doesn’t notice you and your yearning, he must be blind or just daft.  
> [queen // 11:20 am] or he’s just an idiot who couldn’t see beauty if friggin’ helen of troy was standing in front of him.  
>   
> [handmaiden // 11:22 am] cas isn’t an idiot, he’s incredible  
> [handmaiden // 11:23 am] you can tell he really cares a lot about things  
> [handmaiden // 11:24 am] and he’s obvs super smart since he’s teaching at stanford  
> [handmaiden // 11:25 am] and just perfect  
>   
> [queen // 11:27 am] 911, what is your emergency? hello? yes, this is charlie bradbury. i am literally choking on fluff right now. please send an ambulance to the intersection at pine place and angst avenue. thank you.  
> [queen // 11:28 am] i literally can’t deal with this anymore.  
> [queen // 11:28 am] you will go up to him and tell him how much you love him, or i will.  
>   
> [handmaiden // 11:31 am] and how do you think you're going to do that?  
> [handmaiden // 11:32 am] in case you’ve forgotten, your highness, we’re in lockdown  
> [handmaiden // 11:33 am] so joke’s on you  
>   
> [queen // 11:36 am] bite me, bitches.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

It’s only been a few days into this whole online-learning thing and Dean is one more “audio not working” Zoom message away from hurling his laptop from his window and out of his life. Damn the shitty wifi system that barely supports two devices, let alone the fuckload of gadgets lying around their apartment. He channels his frustrations into his lesson notes and Zoom classes, losing himself in the humdrum of the school day. Dean can now confidently draw a ruler-less straight line, and he mentally pats himself on the back when his squares actually look surprisingly like squares.

He and Cas mutually decide that Cas, as a professor of a reputable private research institution, is better off holding his classes at the dining table, where the wifi connection is stronger and the lighting is better. Plus, now Dean has a convenient excuse to ignore exceptionally whiny students or avoid confrontation if a parent decides to show up. He knows that Ben Braeden’s mother has casually walked on screen a few times during pre-algebra and tried to chat with him, much to Dean’s horror and Ben’s mortification.

A minor consequence to holding class in his room is that Dean has to hear Cas all the time, his damnable voice oozing into the room at all times of the day. Dean wipes away his fantasies with an eraser during geometry class as he scrawls theorems on a small whiteboard before a gallery of twenty-five owlish faces.

“Was that Castiel?” Kevin asks. Dean doesn’t have the heart to mute him.

“Yep.” He clicks his tongue.

A cacophony of voices burst through his laptop. Dean scrambles to hit Mute All. He misses.

“Isn’t he your roommate?”

“When didya meet him?”

“Why are you living with Castiel?”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“Did you tell him what he means to you?” Jack looks so serious, his eyebrows furrowed as he asks.

Dean considers using his “bad wifi connection” excuse, but he knows this particular group of kids will see through his trick in an instant. “Number one, we met online. Number two, I’m living with him because we’re friends. We’re _not_ boyfriends.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Jack frowns.

Dean scratches his head. “Well, I care about him a lot, if that’s what you mean. I think he knows.”

Jack hums in disappointment before his face is obscured by a sheet of paper. Dean can barely make out the blurry scribbles, and he inwardly groans. “Then why did you write ‘Dean + Cas’ on my last problem of the week?”

There’s a chorus of _awwws_ , and Dean feels a blush creeping from his neck as he makes a note to chop his right hand off. “Um, I’m not sure this is something we should be talking about, guys. Personal stuff, y’know.”

“But Mr. Winchester, if you love him, you should tell him.” There’s Jack again, and Dean is seriously considering the possibility of having a parent-teacher conference with Kelly Kline to discuss her precocious son.

“Woah, who said anything about love?” Dean backs up, flipping through his notes to get back on track. He wonders if he’s covered the transitive property of equality yet.

“Ooh, maybe something like in _The Princess Bride_.” Kaia Nieves claps her hands together. Other students murmur through the screen about how Ms. Bradbury, the advanced language arts teacher, assigned them to read the novel in class. Dean rolls his eyes. First _A Separate Peace_ , and now this? Leave it to Charlie to nose her way into his business and change her entire curriculum to publicly broadcast Dean’s plight. He wonders if she knows that _The Princess Bride_ is one of his guilty pleasures, a cinematic masterpiece that he’s watched countless times.

Dean discovered that Cas, in his infinite wisdom, had never watched _The Princess Bride_ before. (“Who is Inigo Montoya, and why is he so desperate to find a six-fingered man?” “Holy shit, Cas. Have you been living under a rock?”) They watched the movie together after an especially grueling week, Dean fielding questions left and right as Cas puzzled over the rodents of unusual size and how someone could be “mostly dead.” The two of them dozed off before they reached Inigo’s iconic line, and Dean woke up to the faint music of the credits, his head nestled against Cas’s chest, rising and falling to the steady heartbeat below. Cas’s arms were clasped around Dean’s shoulders, and Dean struggled to stay still. This was the closest he was ever going to get with Cas, and he didn’t want the moment to end.

“—Mr. Winchester?” Dean blinks out of his stupor. Twenty-five pairs of eyes are staring at him.

 _Get it together, you idiot_. He clears his throat and steers the class back into the sea of postulates, holding up the whiteboard to the camera. “Moving on. According to the transitive property of equality, if a equals b and b equals c, then a equals c.”

A hand waves from the screen. “Yes, Kevin?”

“So by the transitive property thingie, if you like Castiel and if he likes you, then does that mean both of your feelings are equal and mutual?”

It takes all of Dean’s willpower to restrain himself from removing Kevin from the call. For one thing, he still wants to keep his job. And he doesn’t want his kids to know how much their questions are getting to him, needling their way through his head and heart and lodging uncomfortably. Dean doesn’t want to say he’s mad or bitter (because he isn’t), but he really doesn’t have the heart or mind to think about Cas right now. Being stuck with your crush is bad enough, let alone a crush who seems oblivious to your every attempt to flirt with them.

He beams at the class. “Sure, Kevin! Whatever gets you to remember it, I guess, because I’m about to give y’all a pop quiz right now.”

The Zoom class erupts into chaos while Dean scrambles to pick out the thorns from himself.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

> [Gabriel // 2:15 PM] cassie  
> [Gabriel // 2:15 PM] cassie  
> [Gabriel // 2:16 PM] cassie  
> [Gabriel // 2:16 PM] cassie  
> [Gabriel // 2:16 PM] cassie  
> [Gabriel // 2:16 PM] cassie  
> [Gabriel // 2:17 PM] cassie  
> [Gabriel // 2:17 PM] cassie  
> [Gabriel // 2:18 PM] cassie  
> [Gabriel // 2:18 PM] cassie  
>   
> [cassie // 2:21 pm] What do you want, Gabriel?  
>   
> [Gabriel // 2:22 PM] how r uuuuuuuuuuu  
> [Gabriel // 2:23 PM] im bored  
> [Gabriel // 2:23 PM] theres nothing to dooooo  
> [Gabriel // 2:24 PM] havent left house in like a month  
> [Gabriel // 2:25 PM] im dyinggg  
>   
> [cassie // 2:30 pm] … Sometimes, I wonder how I put up with you.  
> [cassie // 2:31 pm] Actually, I wonder about it every single day.  
>   
> [Gabriel // 2:32 PM] aww dont b like that bb bro  
> [Gabriel // 2:33 PM] howre u doing?  
>   
> [cassie // 2:37 pm] I am doing fine, Gabriel.  
>   
> [Gabriel // 2:39 PM] hows the fam? hows deano?  
>   
> [cassie // 2:40 pm] We are not going there.  
>   
> [Gabriel // 2:40 PM] ooh so uve been somewhere ayyy  
>   
> [cassie // 2:42 pm] Gabriel, you know what I mean.  
>   
> [Gabriel // 2:44 PM] ur making progress im so proud of u  
> [Gabriel // 2:45 PM] dont mind me just crying over u and deano  
> [Gabriel // 2:45 PM] so cute omg  
>   
> [cassie // 2:47 pm] Gabriel, there is nothing between us.  
>   
> [Gabriel // 2:48 PM] oh so theres a us now  
> [Gabriel // 2:48 PM] i c how it is ;)  
>   
> [Gabriel // 3:07 PM] helloooooooo cassie u cant ignore meeeee  
>   
> [cassie // 3:10 pm] I am busy, Gabriel.  
>   
> [Gabriel // 3:12 PM] busy thinking about dat dickkk  
>   
> [cassie // 3:13 pm] I  
> [cassie // 3:13 pm] Will  
> [cassie // 3:13 pm] Just  
> [cassie // 3:14 pm] Keep  
> [cassie // 3:14 pm] Writing  
> [cassie // 3:14 pm] Messages  
> [cassie // 3:14 pm] Until  
> [cassie // 3:14 pm] I  
> [cassie // 3:15 pm] Do  
> [cassie // 3:15 pm] Not  
> [cassie // 3:15 pm] Have  
> [cassie // 3:16 pm] To  
> [cassie // 3:16 pm] See  
> [cassie // 3:16 pm] What  
> [cassie // 3:17 pm] You  
> [cassie // 3:17 pm] Wrote  
> [cassie // 3:18 pm] There. I cannot see that blasphemous message now. This is much better.  
>   
> [Gabriel // 3:21 PM] deanos dick  
>   
> [cassie // 3:27 pm] You do realize the only reason I have not obliterated your contact information from my phone is because Alfie begged me not to do it.  
>   
> [Gabriel // 3:28 PM] ok fine no dick then  
> [Gabriel // 3:30 PM] but eyyy u and deano getting it on  
> [Gabriel // 3:31 PM] its quarantine if u kno what i mean  
>   
> [cassie // 3:33 pm] We are not.  
> [cassie // 3:34 pm] How should I say this.  
> [cassie // 3:35 pm] Every single time we reach a… profound moment, you happen to call me with that absolutely atrocious ringtone of yours.  
> [cassie // 3:36 pm] Your timing is quite… serendipitous.  
>   
> [Gabriel // 3:40 PM] aw shit so im the cockblocker  
> [Gabriel // 3:41 PM] but srsly tho  
> [Gabriel // 3:42 PM] when r u gonna tell him that uve always wanted to unzip his genes  
> [Gabriel // 3:42 PM] lmao c wat i did there  
> [Gabriel // 3:43 PM] unzip dem genes  
> [Gabriel // 3:44 PM] jeans n genes  
> [Gabriel // 3:44 PM] ur the bio major  
>   
> [cassie // 3:46 pm] Remember when we talked about respecting boundaries, Gabriel?  
> [cassie // 3:47 pm] Moreover, I find your choice of double entendres to be quite juvenile.  
> [cassie // 3:49 pm] I do not believe that wordplay is your strong suit.  
> [cassie // 3:50 pm] … I retract my previous statement.  
>   
> [Gabriel // 3:52 PM] aw so my lil bro isnt as prude as i thought ayyy  
> [Gabriel // 4:07 PM] helloooooooo  
>   
> [cassie // 4:10 pm] TUDRYFIUGOIH  
>   
> [Gabriel // 4:11 PM] did u just have a stroke  
> [Gabriel // 4:11 PM] nooo cassie ur 2 young 2 die  
>   
> [cassie // 4:13 pm] That absolutely wretched woman is standing outside while I am watering the flowers.  
> [cassie // 4:14 pm] I recognize her monstrous visage from her LinkedIn profile.  
> [cassie // 4:14 pm] Her beady little eyes are staring at me from across the street.  
>   
> [Gabriel // 4:16 PM] oh fr the weirdo complaining abt ur bees?  
>   
> [cassie // 4:20 pm] This is a preemptive warning to say I have no regrets for what I am going to do next.  
>   
> [Gabriel // 4:20 PM] oh no that sounds rly bad

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Dean misses Baby.

She’s back in his hometown two thousand miles away, probably pouting underneath the maple trees flanking the driveway of his childhood home and wondering when Dean’s going to come back. He misses driving around with her, meandering through the outskirts of the city with nothing but the whooshing of wind and roaring of Led Zeppelin through the rolled-down windows. Baby is Dean’s everything—besides his family—and he takes great care to make her all pretty and shiny whenever they go out on the town, taking his time to gently wax her hood or vigorously polish her rims. Dean had wanted to bring her along when he moved to California, but he hadn’t found an apartment with a secure enough space for her, so Dean went, leaving Baby behind. He’s been looking forward to going back home spring break, to run his hands across her jet black trunk before taking her for a long, fast ride.

Dean realizes he might not get to see his beloved Impala for some time.

He channels his frustrations into Animal Crossing. Gabe had bought it for Cas as a joke— _“you could start your own religious cult in this game!”_ —and while Cas only started playing to spite his brother, he quickly became addicted and spent so many hours screaming about his inability to catch bugs that even Dean found himself participating out of sheer curiosity. What started out as an exercise in utter boredom became a welcome distraction from the overall situation, really, with all the chaos going around outside. The game offered Dean a tantalizing bonus: just him and Cas on the island, surrounded by trees and the occasional neighbor—it’s truly a perfect little oasis.

Then Charlie came along and waggled Beau in his face.

 _Must’ve made a deal with the devil to get Beau on her island_ , Dean thinks. He’s been eyeing the deer villager a while, having realized that Beau looked a bit like an impala, and he’s desperate for any tribute towards his favorite girl back home. And true to her word, Dean’s best friend had found a way to intervene with Dean’s life.

“Tell him that you love him and I’ll give Beau to you for free,” her voice singsongs into Dean’s headset as they run through an assault game on Overwatch.

“You know you can’t make me do it,” Dean replies.

“Fine. Then you’ll have to pay for Beau to come to your island.” Charlie laughs, much to Dean’s exasperation. “But since we’re best friends, I’m only asking for one million bells.”

“One million?!”

“That, or you talk to Cas about your _feelings_.”

“Ugh, screw it. I’ll take the one million.”

The hermit crab wriggles away from Dean’s net and falls into the ocean with an undignified _splat_. He curses under his breath, chucking the controller at the wall. This entire thing is Charlie’s fault.

Dean rolls his eyes as he looks towards the balcony. Cas had been curled up next to him on the couch, silently grading projects and texting Gabe, his head gently leaning against Dean’s shoulder. The warmth vanished when Cas went out to the balcony, muttering about the wellbeing of his plants and how his brother was sending him absolutely dreadful texts.

When Dean first moved in, he was shocked that Cas’s in-game healing skills were reflected in real life. True to his word, Cas carefully researched and cultivated a veritable haven of plants in what little space they have outside. Their balcony is a hodgepodge of random pots and stands bursting in a rainbow of colors, sprays of golden-yellow poppies peeking out from in between patches of purple asters, clusters of lilac catmint and orange blanket flowers twinkling from old mail trays that Cas filched from the biology department. Dean has a habit of leaving the screen door open, the fragrance of wildflowers wafting into the apartment and wrapping everything in a soft, warm touch.

Cas is perched over a pot of lavender, eyes furrowed as he meticulously prunes and preens over the shrub. Dean swears that he can hear him talking to the plant, the sound of faint whispers trailing through the screen door and lingering in the air. He knows just how much Cas cares for the plants and treats them like his children, how his face lights up whenever a flower blossoms or a shrub sprouts new leaves.

Dean watches as a bird lands on his roommate’s shoulder, startling the man from his work. Cas’s face immediately brightens as he reaches out to pet the bird’s lustrous onyx feathers. The bird is close enough that Dean can make out its pale blue eyes; they remind him of Cas, soft yet keenly inquisitive. The sunlight throws shadows on Cas, and if Dean squints hard enough, he can almost imagine a faint halo around Cas’s unkempt bedhead and the faintest shimmer of outstretched wings.

 _Got ourselves a regular Cinderella here_ , Dean muses, sniggering as he imagines Cas in a silvery-blue ball gown, then quickly scrubbing the thought from his mind. He’s not too eager to imagine Cas waltzing in the arms of an unknown stranger just yet, and his heart clenches uncomfortably at the thought.

Sighing, he heaves himself off the couch to pick up the controller before chasing after another hermit crab. _Second time’s the charm_.

Dean is oh-so-close to nabbing the crab when the door slams and he drops the controller in surprise. The crab scuttles away into the ocean. Dean grits his teeth.

“What the fuck, Cas?” He looks up from the screen and straight into Cas’s stormy eyes. “Why’d you do that?”

“She’s back.” Cas announces.

“Huh?”

Cas’s hands are clenched into fists, “That reprehensible hag is back. I saw her trying to take pictures of our balcony while I was outside. She must have nerves of steel.”

“Who?”

“Dean, you cannot tell me that you managed to forget the vile woman who sent you the lovely little message about the state of our balcony.”

“Oh, her. Whatever her name is.” Dean shakes his head. “How do you even know who she is?”

“Her name is Eve Jones, and I looked her up on LinkedIn before responding to her email.” Cas shrugs. “I may have also tracked down her place of employment and her current address. Did you know that she applied for a legal name change in 2012? She probably had to change her name because she did something so despicable that she had to distance herself from it all.”

“Cas,” Dean repeats, exasperated. He covertly pauses New Horizons and places the controller on the side.“It’s probably not as deep as you think. I thought I told you to let it go.”

“She was taking pictures. Pictures of our balcony,” Cas seethes, and Dean has uncomfortable flashbacks of Le Papillon, among other things. He’s seen that look before, the look of utter rage reflecting in Cas’s eyes, his chest heaving up and down as he struggles to contain himself. _Still hot_ , Dean admits, _but really not the best time_.

“I don’t think it’s worth trying to engage with her.” Dean feels like he’s back at KIPP, trying to mediate a conflict between his kids. “Plus, what if she starts recording you yelling at her? And if that gets on the news or something?”

“I’ll record her right back,” Cas snaps defiantly. “I know my rights as an American citizen.”

“That wasn’t my point.” Dean picks up the controller. “C’mon. Let’s play some more New Horizons. Maybe you could teach me how to catch a hermit crab.”

Cas shakes his head. “I will go out and citizen’s arrest that wretch before she sends us another email.”

Dean is up from the couch in a flash, firmly gripping both Cas’s wrists. He really, really doesn’t want either of them to get in trouble. “Dude, you can’t just go out and citizen’s arrest someone for being on the street.”

“Of course I can,” Cas snarls, and Dean swears he’d jump him right here, right now if the situation weren’t so serious. “Dean, let me go.”

“No can do, Cas. I don’t want to see you get hurt.” Dean’s giving everything he has into his best puppy eyes right now, his hands still firmly clasped around Cas’s arms. They’ve slowly shifted away from the door, but Cas resists Dean’s efforts, his muscles taut as he looks at Dean, then at the flowers, then back at Dean. The air hisses between them, tension palpable, with neither of them willing to give in.

“Dean. I said, let me go.”

“Cas, don’t.”

“Dean, let me go!”

Something snaps.

“Fine; whatever.” Dean releases his hands right as Cas wrenches his arms away, momentum propelling him backwards. The shock of rejection ripples through his arms and up to his heart. Cas doesn’t want to listen to him. Cas doesn’t want him. _Cas_.

A dull ache creeps through his body as he turns away to escape. Suddenly, Dean stumbles on something small and hard. It’s the freaking Switch controller.

“ _Sonofabitch_ —” and he’s falling. If only Sammy can see him now.

“Oh my God, what have I done?” Cas’s voice barely registers as he lunges forward, hand outstretched, to try and catch Dean, but it’s too late. Dean’s fingers scrabble to latch onto a solid, warm forearm, and it almost seems like gravity’s going to lose—until it doesn't.

(Man, _fuck_ Newton.)

Dean hits the floor, pain curdling in the back of his head. There’s a muffled thump, and a solid warmth settles on Dean’s chest. He blinks, his jade eyes meeting Cas’s sapphire ones.

“You okay, Cas?”

“Am I okay?” Cas huffs. “A more pertinent question is, are you okay, Dean?”

“’M fine.” Dean struggles to wink. “So, uh, I think you just fell for me.”

“Now is not the time to be playing games. You could have a concussion.” Cas’s hands are deftly pressing into Dean’s head, eyes squinting in concentration. Dean would laugh, if he didn’t feel like his head was literally splitting open. It’s literally a scenario out of those trashy romance novels he secretly likes to read, the one where the heroine is trying to save her love interest from some life-threatening injury. And Dean, potentially-concussed-out-of-his-mind Dean, is still trying to flirt with Cas. Cas, his best friend. Cas, the most oblivious crush he’s ever had.

Cas, the only one he’ll ever want to tease again.

“So, Doctor Novak—” Dean has never seen Cas’s head turn so fast, “—do I have a concussion?”

“Dean, I’m not an actual physician. I’m just a PhD.” Cas hesitates, gently stroking Dean’s hair. “But if you’re coherent and still making jokes, then I would say that you’re probably fine and don’t have a concussion.”

“Yeah, yeah. Told you I’d be fine.” Dean rolls his eyes. “I don’t even know the difference. You’re all doctors.”

“Then you should be glad that I’m not your primary physician.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because this,” Cas murmurs softly, “would definitely be a breach in physician-patient boundaries.”

“Wha—?” Dean gasps in surprise as Cas leans forward to kiss him. It’s a small, sweet kiss, with chapped lips and a hint of lavender, but a kiss nonetheless. A spark of electricity somersaults through Dean’s entire body. _Did he just fucking kiss me_?

“I’m an idiot.” Cas breathes against his lips, eyes twinkling. “An actual idiot who couldn’t see love if he literally fell for it.”

“Nah.” Dean wraps his arms around Cas and squeezes. “You’re not just any idiot. You’re my idiot. And that’s all that matters.”

Cas’s smile is everything and more. Dean can’t even remember how they ended up on the floor, limbs tangled, faces flushed as their foreheads gently bump together.

He gently traces the tiny crow’s-feet etched in the corners of Cas’s eyes. “Cas?”

“Yes?”

Something swells through Dean’s chest. “Hey, do that again.”

His heart stutters frantically when Cas tilts his head. _You’ve done it now_.

“ _As you wish_ ,” and Cas presses another kiss against Dean’s lips, one that smells like flowers and cloves and a touch of peppermint from Burt's Bees lip balm. A warm glow seeps in between Dean’s ribs, and he kisses back enthusiastically.

George Michael’s “Careless Whisper” crashes through the moment with the grace of a wrecking ball. The two of them pull apart, Cas’s face a curious shade of fuchsia as he fumbles for his phone, while Dean covers his face with his hands in dismay as he imagines his ideal Gabe-less scenario.

“Gabriel,” Cas snaps. “I’m in the middle of something important right now.” Dean can hear faint whooping and screaming in the background. “No, now is not a good time.” A pause. “Now, kindly _buzz off_ before I eliminate your contact information permanently.”

Dean thinks the entire situation is absurd, with Cas kneeling above him, his hair askew, threatening Gabe with a pun (of all things) in that dangerously deep voice of his that has been the subject of some of Dean’s dreams. He can feel the laughter rollicking through his entire body as he tries to hold it in.

“What’s wrong?” Cas scowls at his phone before tossing it aside.

“I didn’t think you were into puns.”

“Oh, Dean Winchester.” Cas’s smile is blindingly white. “There are many, many things I am into.”

He leans back down and pulls Dean into another kiss. “Like kisses. Especially kisses with you.”

Dean can only nod wordlessly.

They cuddle and kiss for a while on the hardwood floor, long enough for Dean to murmur quietly about a crick in his neck that has Cas pulling him to his feet, pins and needles prickling everywhere. They somehow make their way to the couch—New Horizons is long forgotten—and Dean sighs as he threads his hand along Cas’s dark, black hair before tugging Cas downwards for an exhilarating kiss.

This time, Cas is the one to break. “I need to ask you for your consent.” He looks genuinely worried, eyes darting back and forth. “According to Tea Consent, I need to know that you aren’t impaired or feel coerced in any way, preferably with some form of verbal agreement before—”

Dean silences him with another enthusiastic kiss. “Cas. Forget the tea. I consent. I’m consenting all over the place. Seriously.” He grinds their bodies together, moaning at the sparks flickering off his skin. For all he knows, the tea has been brewing ever since he met Cas, flames simmering in frustration until they spilled out in righteous passion.

“Oh, okay.” Cas is all shades of red. He cradles Dean’s head in his hands, running shaky fingers through sandy blond hair. Cas’s eyes darken to shimmering constellations, and as Dean leans forward for another kiss, he loses himself in space.

A soft hum, and Cas is nibbling at Dean’s neck, sending trails of energy pulsing down his body as Dean runs his fingers through Cas’s dense, black hair and down his back. It’s agonizing, honestly, the way Cas gently teases each earlobe with whisper-light touches before biting down abruptly. Dean just about screams.

“Is it me, or is it _hot_ in here?” he wonders aloud, shifting uncomfortably in frustration while trying to claw his way out of his clothes. His flannel is stifling, breathable cotton be damned.

Cas gently grasps at the sleeves before pulling off Dean’s flannel in one fluid motion, smiling coyly as Dean jumps in surprise. “You’re definitely the hottest here.”

“Tease,” mutters Dean, reaching forward to free Cas from his shirt, the faded black one with Icarus clawing his way towards the sky, wings outstretched, Led Zeppelin inscribed below. Dean had given it to him as a present when he first moved in, and while Cas grumbled about the size (“This is much too large for someone of my physique”) he wore it almost every day around the apartment. The shirt is tossed aside unceremoniously, followed by Cas’s shorts and underwear, and _holy hypotenuses, just how big is_ —and Dean’s mind subsequently implodes with a soft _poof_.

He finds himself tracing triangles along Cas’s bare hipbones now, straight lines blending into curves as Cas mounts a torturously slow campaign from his neck to his chest, pausing to nibble gently at his collarbone.

“Cas, hurry up,” Dean whines, thrusting against the pleasure building in his groin. “Don’t have forever.”

“Patience you must have, my young padawan,” Cas purrs, and Dean’s mind almost short-circuits again because goddamn, he was once so sure that Cas was a pop culture plebeian that the mere thought of him quoting the wizened green Jedi from Star Wars is enough to send Dean’s thoughts into a galaxy far, far away.

When Cas hooks his fingers delicately around the waistband of Dean’s joggers, Dean can’t shimmy out of them fast enough, breath hitching as the cool air races across his skin. He feels self-conscious all of a sudden, blushing as he tries to cover up the remnants of his dignity when Cas takes his time peeling off his boxer briefs.

Dean finds himself yelping again as Cas takes them both in his left hand at once, his entire body trembling as nimble fingers brush cautiously across his skin. There’s absolutely too much Cas to hold and too few hands to do it, so Dean opts to flail his arms helplessly through the air until his roommate gently guides his hand downwards.

“Can you feel it?” Another languid pull, and Dean moans. Oh, this is _so_ much better than his shower sessions.

“ _Cascascas_ —“ he’s chanting now, a quiet mantra that pierces the heady silence as tides of pleasure crest across his body. Dean almost laughs at his thoughts. Since when did he become such a poet? Charlie would be proud.

Cas flicks his index finger against that _particularly sensitive_ spot Dean likes to avoid, and all intrusive thoughts about math and language and his best friend vanish instantly from Dean’s mind.

“ _Shit_ , Cas.” Dean laces their fingers together, wincing as his fingernails scrape against heat. “Warn a guy, would you?”

And then: “Christ, what the hell do you use on your hands? Why’re they so soft?”

Cas peers at him, all misty-eyed and rose-faced. “Burt’s Bees Ultimate Care Hand Cream.”

Dean snorts, because Cas, of all people, would be one who hasn’t lost his entire goddamn mind in a situation like this, all awkward angles and loose limbs and flushed faces.

He bends forward to kiss Cas once more, breathing softly together to the rhythm of their strokes. Well, Cas’s strokes, mostly. Dean’s just along for the ride, just clinging on to Cas as he takes them towards the light, his hips stuttering as he thrusts up and against Cas.

When the light appears, it’s less of a warmth and more of a flash. Dean trips into pure ecstasy, groaning as he loses himself in a haze of pleasure. He can dimly feel Cas keening against him as he comes, his low groans filling the air as he desperately kisses Dean.

Cas falls on him with a muffled _thump_ , his head nestled against Dean’s chest. Their hands are still curled together, and Dean tightens his grip. He wonders if this is how Kirk felt when he held Spock’s hand for the first time, all high and euphoria running through his veins.

Everything is sticky and hot, but neither of them seem to mind as they bask in silence, the sun waving a final farewell as it glides towards the San Jose skyline.

Dean breaks first. “Hey, Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Are you less than 90 degrees?” He pauses for effect. “’Cause you’re a cute angel.”

“What?” Cas looks bemused.

 _Oh, fuck_. “Shit, I meant angle. _Angle_. ’Cause, y’know, acute angles and all that—” Dean stammers.

Cas lets out a tiny giggle, a smattering of dimples gracing his smile. “Dean?”

“Uh, yeah?” Dean’s still wrapping his mind about his pitiful pick-up line.

“You’re quite _bee_ -utiful yourself.”

“Oh, shut up.” _What the fuck_? Dean can’t believe that Cas, Cas the ever-tactful, is making silly pick-up lines at him, and he rolls his eyes. “No fair. There’s no need for the _complements_.”

Cas cocks an eyebrow. “I can’t help it, but I think I’ve _pollen_ for you.”

“Cas!” Dean punches him gently in the shoulder. “I think you’re going off on a _tangent_ now.”

Cas looks earnestly at him, galaxies shimmering. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you _bee_ mine?”

Dean gulps, because this can’t be happening right now. Yeah, they’d just had a super intense make-out session, and Cas had been pretty enthusiastic about it, but Dean really, really doesn’t want this to be a one-time thing. “God, Cas. I really thought you’d be like, I dunno, like the square root of -100. A perfect ten but purely _imaginary_.”

“Is that a no?” Cas falters at Dean’s remark.

“Don’t be _obtuse_ , Cas.” Dean reaches out to pull him into a hug, pecking him gently on the cheek. “Of course I’ll _bee_ yours. Think I was already yours the first time you saved me in King’s Row.”

Cas’s only response is to snuggle tighter against Dean’s chest, wrapping his arms around Dean like a warm, albeit bulky, Cas-blanket.

Sitting in the quiet, with only the occasional jingle of a leash or the beep of a car passing by, his arms cradling his roommate-slash- _boyfriend_ , Dean decides to save his talk about the Tempur-Pedic mattress for later.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

> [jerk // 9:37 pm] fuck i did it  
>   
> [bitch // 9:40 pm] ???  
>   
> [jerk // 9:43 pm] my roommate  
>   
> [bitch // 9:50 pm] … Dean, not this again.  
>   
> [jerk // 9:53 pm] ;)  
>   
> [bitch // 9:55 pm] Don’t tell me.  
> [bitch // 9:55 pm] I don’t want to know.  
> [bitch // 9:56 pm] LALALALALALALALALA  
>   
> [jerk // 10:00 pm] the power of pine sol got nothing on me, sammy!!  
>   
> [bitch // 10:01 pm] orz

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

> [cassie // 11:49 pm] I have no regrets for what I did.  
>   
> [Gabriel // 11:58 PM] !!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternative titles include: red bull haunts your dreams, red bull makes you scream, red bull shows you things

> **From:** novak@stanford.edu  
>  **Sent:** April 4, 2020 7:21 AM  
>  **To:** RELIGST147-301-20C@lists.stanford.edu  
>  **Subject:** Building Heaven and Hell—Check-In & Updates
> 
> Dear class,
> 
> I hope that all of you have been doing well in these unprecedented times, and I wanted to check in on everyone to see how you all are managing the many disruptions you have all inevitably experienced these last few days. I understand that the sudden distance from campus, friends, and the community can be quite upsetting and potentially exacerbates the already difficult and uncertain environment for each of you. I also want to reassure you that I continue to be invested in your education and your sense of well-being.
> 
> Our next class will be on Thursday, April 9, 2020, at our usual class time of 1:30 PM PST. I will send out a Zoom link when the time comes, so please familiarize yourself with the platform if at all possible. I also recommend connecting with video so we can see one another, which can help rebuild our sense of community. If you foresee a time conflict or internet connectivity issue, please email me as soon as possible. I will be sending out a shopping list for materials that you might need for the rest of the semester, especially with constructing your assignments for the class. As always, I am available through email if you have any questions or would like to discuss your approach towards your final project.
> 
> On a separate note, I was wondering if any of you are currently playing Animal Crossing: New Horizons. I am in desperate need of an island on which I can sell my turnips. If interested, please let me know.
> 
> Warmly,
> 
> CN

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

> **From:** swinchester@stanford.edu  
>  **Sent:** April 5, 2020 8:45 AM  
>  **To:** novak@stanford.edu  
>  **Subject:** Re: Building Heaven and Hell—Check-In & Updates
> 
> Dear Professor Novak,
> 
> Thank you so much for the update. I’m looking forward to class and getting the materials as soon as possible so I can start constructing my interpretation for this week’s reading.
> 
> I noticed that you mentioned New Horizons in your email. Today, my island has turnips for 427 bells.
> 
> Best,
> 
> Sam

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

> **From:** novak@stanford.edu  
>  **Sent:** April 5, 2020 9:27 AM  
>  **To:** swinchester@stanford.edu  
>  **Subject:** Re: Re: Building Heaven and Hell—Check-In & Updates
> 
> Dear Mr. Winchester,
> 
> Might I be able to visit your island around 11:30 AM today?
> 
> Warmly,
> 
> CN

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

> **From:** swinchester@stanford.edu  
>  **Sent:** April 5, 2020 10:08 AM  
>  **To:** novak@stanford.edu  
>  **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Building Heaven and Hell—Check-In & Updates
> 
> Dear Professor Novak,
> 
> That works for me. I’ll be online by then.
> 
> My Dodo Code is T97BQ. My friend code is SW-6667-3685-5387, just in case.
> 
> Best,
> 
> Sam

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

It takes Sam less than three minutes on New Horizons to realize that Professor Novak is as awkward in-game as he is in real life.

He watches as his religious studies professor tries—and fails—to catch a ladybug on a rosebush, his character’s net breaking afterwards. Sam’s had his fair share of awkward social interactions as a communication major, but he’s never experienced as much secondhand embarrassment then as he is now.

 _Have you gone to sell your turnips yet?_ He carefully types in and sends.

A pause. Professor Novak must be fumbling with his controls.

Sam tries to imagine his professor playing New Horizons in real life, stumbling over the onscreen keyboard with clumsy fingers. He remembers the first day of class, how a raven-haired man had shown up in a neatly pressed suit and a tie that was, curiously, inside-out. His professor proceeded to trip abruptly over an extension cord, spilling his coffee along with any professor stereotype Sam had come to expect in the three years he’s been at Stanford.

What Professor Novak lacks in grace he more than makes up for with his enthusiasm (or downright fanaticism, depending on who is asking) in analyzing Scripture or The Book of Jubilees, his low, gravelly voice echoing in the halls of Y2E2. Sam’s never taken a class quite like this, one where the students are expected to build dioramas and personal representations of heaven and hell to show to the class, but hey, that’s religious studies for you.

Sam’s console dings as Professor Novak’s message pops up onscreen. _I have not. Thank you very much for the reminder, Mr. Winchester. I will be back shortly_.

(And another thing. Professor Novak never calls his students by their first names. Mr. Winchester is Sam’s father or grandfather, for heaven’s sake.)

He watches as Professor Novak rushes offscreen towards Nook’s Cranny and shakes his head. Sam wonders how lockdown has gotten him this desperate for human contact that he’s resorted to playing video games with his religious studies professor.

To be honest, Sam loves his roommates, even if they’re a bit much at times. He knows that Jo means well whenever she offers to cook, and Ash is always open to helping him edit his presentations before class, but Sam is just about done with both of his friends. There’s only so much he can take, being stuck in a tiny apartment with a girl who spends most of her time building tiny trebuchets and a guy who takes every opportunity to psychoanalyze him, even going so far as to take the same religious studies class as him “for fun.”

The lockdown makes everything worse.

Normally, Sam meets up with Dean once a week after classes at Antonio’s Nut House, a somewhat sleazy-looking joint with the cheapest yet tastiest margaritas Sam has ever had (Dean called them _frou frou_ drinks, but what did he know?), all served alongside a scattering of peanut shells littering the floor. Along with their usual complaints about professors being hardasses (Sam) or school administration being hardasses (Dean), the two brothers take turns sinking snooker balls and slamming shots at the bar, an occasional peanut thrown here and there. Sometimes, Charlie—Dean’s coworker and supposed best friend at KIPP—joins them, but other than that, it’s usually just the two of them gallivanting around Palo Alto in a half-drunk stupor until sleep or studying beckons them back to their respective homes, Sam heading down El Camino Real towards Stanford and Dean going south to San Jose and Cas.

Cas. Cas is literally all Dean has talked about these past few months, and even though Sam’s sure he’s never met the guy— _“But he’s at Stanford, Sammy!” “Dean, Stanford’s a big school.”_ —he’s learned more about Cas than he knows about most of his friends. Like how Cas enjoys playing Overwatch (apparently that’s how he met Dean), and how passionate Cas is about saving bees, and how Cas is the greatest, smartest, and hottest person Dean has ever met.

(Well, Dean didn’t necessarily say the “hot” part, but Sam’s deductive reasoning is fairly robust, especially when it came to his brother. That, and Dean’s not exactly subtle when it comes to pining.)

Sam didn’t trust Cas at first, but when he sees how relaxed and happy Dean seems to be during their weekly happy hours, he gives a silent seal of approval. He’s glad that Dean has found a friend—and then some. Judging by the texts that Charlie showed him one night, Sam knows that Dean has it bad.

He flops back on his bed, waiting for Professor Novak to come back from his intrepid quest to Nook’s Cranny. Sam really wants to finish this awkward island visit. Ash had snuck into the bathroom earlier armed with what looked to be a blowtorch and several months’ worth of dental floss, muttering about a term paper for his cognitive science class, so Sam’s keeping an eye on him to make sure they don’t have an encore to the exploding microwave performance from last week. Knowing Ash, he’s probably already planned out his entire final project and is waiting for the perfect time to inflict his masterpiece on his roommates, Sam included.

A pitter-patter of steps, and Professor Novak reappears in front of Sam.

A small bubble pops up. _Mr. Winchester, thank you very much for the opportunity for me to utilize your turnip market. I apologize, but I need to go—my partner made lunch and he is being very insistent. I will see you in class on Thursday_.

Sam writes. _No problem. Thanks for coming!_

Wait a minute. Partner? Professor Novak has a partner? His uptight, overzealous religious studies professor?

A bit after Professor Novak has left the airport, and Sam’s still puzzling over the whole partner thing. _Huh. Interesting_ , Sam muses as he gleefully digs up another manila clam and shovels the tidbit into the back of his mind.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

_Ding-dong_.

“Hello?” Sam hurriedly tucks his hair behind his ears while he squints at his laptop screen, hoping no one has seen the dark circles under his eyes. Having pulled an all-nighter to finish a paper for his COMM 272 class, he’s barely had time to freshen up before opening the Zoom meeting for RELIGST 147. Sam sends a desperate prayer to the gods that the three Red Bulls he drank earlier and the one currently open on his desk will sustain him through whatever riveting discussion Professor Novak has in store for them today.

“Hey, Sam!” Tiny Ash waves at him. “How’re you feeling?”

“Ash, you’re literally one room away.” Sam closes his eyes as a migraine wiggles its way into his brain. He takes a generous swig of Red Bull, grimacing at the taste.

“So?”

 _Ding-dong_. Zoom chimes merrily as the grainy faces of Pamela and Benny appear on screen. Bela appears a few seconds later, followed by an overly enthusiastic Garth.

“So, uh, where’s the prof?” Benny’s voice floats through Sam’s laptop. He’s eating popcorn, and Sam hears his empty stomach grumble in response.

 _Ding-dong_. Another window appears with the words “Castiel Novak” below, and Sam watches his professor scowl on screen at something past the camera.

“Hello, class. I hope that you’re doing well.” Professor Novak looks remorseful. “I apologize for the slight delay. My partner is being a bit finicky today, seeing as how he is currently on spring break and _should be considerate that others are working_.” The last part is punctuated with a glare offscreen.

“Your partner?” Pamela asks, picking up on (arguably) the least important part, in Sam’s opinion.

“Oh, yes.” There’s another commotion and raised voices before Professor Novak turns back. “And now he insists on meeting you all—”

Six pairs of eyes focus intensely on the professor, including Sam’s. They’re all wondering who would date clumsy, nerdy, and downright quaint Professor Novak. After that particular island visit, Sam is now even more curious as to who Professor Novak’s partner is. He can already see the dollar signs flashing in Ash and Bela’s eyes, and he knows that there’s probably some sort of clandestine betting pool that’s just resurfaced.

“—but that would be a serious breach of professor-student professionalism,” Professor Novak finishes.

“Aww, but Professor,” Bela coos. “Didn’t you say you wanted to ‘rebuild our sense of community?’ I think that introducing us to your partner would really help create that sense of family.”

“Bela has a good point. I wanna meet them!” Garth practically shouts.

“Ms. Talbot, Mr. Fitzgerald,” Professor Novak sighs as he surveys the pool of eager faces. “I suppose that these unprecedented times call for unprecedented measures. Very well. Dean?”

 _Dean_? Sam raises his eyebrows as he takes another sip. “Hey, my brother’s name is—”

Another head pops onscreen next to Professor Novak. Sam’s Red Bull casually makes its way down the wrong pipe, his exhausted eyes bulging out of his head as he chokes.

The short-cropped blond hair. The green eyes. The stupid grin.

He’d recognize his brother anywhere.

“... Dean?” Sam utters after a spasmodic fit of coughing.

“Sam?” Dean looks almost as perplexed as Sam does. “What’re you doing here?”

“Me? What’re _you_ doing here?!” Sam screeches. “This is my class! And my professor!”

“And this is my boyfriend!”

“And you’re my brother!”

“And you’re _my_ brother!”

“What the actual f—”

Silence. Everyone else is staring at the drama unfolding before them. Benny seems to have inhaled a good amount of popcorn in the process, to the point of almost choking. Ash and Bela have muted their mics and seem to be up to something, looking at the screen with identical Cheshire grins.

Sam stares in horror as his professor’s face turns white, mouth gaping like some confused fish. It would for an interesting sight, if Sam wasn’t already losing his mind, the processing centers in his brain screaming in agony at the _too-much-unnecessary-information-at-once_.

“So, hotshot. Who are you, exactly?” Pamela starts and clasps her hands primly, mouth curling into a smile.

“Um, uh, so, uh, I’m Dean Winchester? Cas’s boyfriend?” Dean splutters. “And, uh, yeah. I’m also Sam’s brother.”

“Oh my God, this is right out of a soap opera,” Garth whispers, but Sam is long gone, mind warping into hyperdrive as he struggles to process everything. He can feel a feeble dribble of Red Bull fizzling through his fatigued body, the X-Files music humming in the background.

Cas. Dean’s roommate is Cas. The Cas that Dean always whines about. Castiel.

 _Castiel Novak_.

 _Professor Castiel Novak_.

 _Professor Castiel Novak is his brother’s fucking boyfriend_.

It all makes sense now. How come he didn’t realize it earlier?

And with that final revelation, Sam promptly falls forward and smashes his face into his laptop with a glorious _UNM6N6NHGH_.

“OH SHIT.” Sam thinks he hears footsteps as Ash barges into his room before the wonderful darkness embraces him. “It’s a classic case of sensory overload! Guess I just got my topic for my term paper!”


End file.
